


girondo

by vavafroome (spaceboy_niko)



Category: Cycling RPF
Genre: Anal Fingering, Blow Jobs, Drunk Sex, Edgeplay, M/M, Oral Sex, Platonic Sex, Rimming, but like it's all really mild and vaguely written
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-12
Updated: 2021-02-12
Packaged: 2021-03-12 05:53:23
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,099
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29380218
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/spaceboy_niko/pseuds/vavafroome
Summary: george looksreallygood in that old mapei kit.
Relationships: George Bennett/Sam Bewley
Comments: 2
Kudos: 8





	girondo

**Author's Note:**

> for those of you not in the podcast know: the girondo is a retro kit pub crawl that a bunch of pros who live in girona do every year. kit has to be at least ten years old to be retro, and there are no losers because it's a ride with your mates and you get drunk to boot. what's not to love!
> 
> also inspired by literally every instance of casual flirting between sam and george. please, one of you, just say no homo

The shorts have been on Sam’s mind all day, Voeckler-short and tantalising, since George rode up to this year’s Girondo’s _grand départ_ , smug in his kit from Mapei’s height in the 90s. Sam knows he was staring, watching George unclip and lean on his handlebars, legs long and lithe and distracting as Sam is narrowly voted best dressed.

George is the one who calls for one last stop, as always, drunk and fired up, one last round at his place. Only Sam goes with him, because George has good taste in beer, and what he has is generally cold. George has barely opened two bottles before Sam pulls him down to the couch in a kiss.

“Sam, the beer’ll go flat,” George laughs, reaching blindly for one of the bottles and taking a swig.

“Fuck the beer,” Sam says, intercepting his mouth as it comes off the bottle.

“But _Sam_ ,” George whines.

"You've drunk worse things today, babe."

George begrudgingly lets Sam gently take the bottle out of his hand, but is more than eager to kiss back again. He tastes like beer and sunscreen, and his skin is still warm from the ride.

“I hate this kit,” George says, unzipping Sam’s old Radioshack jersey roughly and pulling Sam down on top of him.

“You love it,” Sam retorts, settling in between George's legs. “Careful with that, it’s vintage.”

“Vintage, my _arse_ ,” George declares. “You’re just old enough to have a full kit that doesn’t break the rules.”

Sam runs his finger down the zip track of George’s brightly coloured jersey. “And you’re too cheap to find a full Mapei kit. Or did you just want to wear those _awful_ ,” Sam traces the hem of George’s shorts, too high up his thighs to be decent, “too-short shorts?”

George grins up at him. “I’ll never tell.”

Sam mirrors his expression. "I hate these shorts," he says. "Mind taking them off?"

"Oh, you smooth bastard," George grumbles, but sits up and lets Sam unzip his jersey, shimmying out of Lycra and tugging down bib straps until all that remains between George and the world are those tight shorts leaving very little to the imagination. Sam shuffles off the couch, and watches as George arches his hips up and pulls them down to his knees, then tries to kick them off once they're past his calves.

"Hot," Sam laughs as George gets stuck.

"Fuck you, help me out!"

Sam sits on the floor and untangles George's ankles, and George spreads his legs. Normally, Sam would find the lube and condoms in the coffee table drawer, sit between George's legs, and fuck him, rough and sloppy in the way they fuck when they're drunk and tired.

"Can I eat you out?"

He doesn't know where the thought comes from, and the words feel strange in his mouth, but the more he thinks about it, the more he likes the idea of those pale thighs scuffed up by his beard, of George spread out and slick with spit, of leaving a mark in the guiltiest spot.

"Is that even a question?"

Sam doesn't hesitate to grab George's hips, pull him clumsily towards the edge of the couch, and hook thighs over strong shoulders.

"Sam," George groans at the first press of lips to his upper thigh.

Sam hums in acknowledgement, close to touching, but not quite there.

"Fuck," George breathes as Sam drags his tongue over George's hole, gasps as it licks into him and hands find purchase on his hips.

George fumbles a hand onto his dick, starts moving, whines, and stops, just holding himself. Sam's seen him do this before. He knows that, every so often, George will try to move his hand again, then stop, squeeze, grit his teeth, hold back from the edge for as long as he can.

Sam likes to test this.

"Oh, _god_ ," George sighs as Sam pulls away and slides open the drawer by his knee. They're close to running out of lube. Sam makes a mental note as he pumps what he can onto his fingers and kneels up.

It's only two fingers, not much of a stretch yet, but Sam knows just how to curve them, slowly stroking, pulling curses out of George like handkerchiefs from a sleeve.

"Son of a-" George inhales sharply, and Sam accepts that he is not going to fuck him today, because George lets his hand keep moving, and Sam keeps his pace exactly the same, and George makes a noise that Sam knows very few people can draw from him.

George flops back on the couch, stomach covered in his own come, hand resting loosely around his dick.

"Can you bring me tissues and clean undies?" he asks, eyes on the ceiling.

"Will you get me off?"

"Mm-hm."

The briefs Sam naively picks are snug and heather-grey, and George barely has them on before he drops to his knees in front of Sam.

"Off," he says, and Sam strips obligingly, keeping his shorts on enough so that making himself decent later is easy.

George is good with his mouth, Sam will attest, and so it's a welcome familiarity when George licks his lips and guides Sam's cock into his mouth.

Whiskey dick is always a fear after a Girondo, but George's mouth seems to be the cure to that particular ailment. Sam doesn't ever know what to do here - George doesn't always like being touched when he sucks cock, and it's always touch and go as to whether he's in the mood for it - so until George reaches up and takes his hand, Sam keeps them firmly by his sides. Even now, George just holds his hand, interlocking their fingers, a tender gesture in this casual show of intimacy.

Sam tries pinpointing the sensations, where George's tongue slides, his throat relaxes, his teeth gently graze, but his head's too muddled from the alcohol and from George, so he lets it all wash over him. He faintly remembers to squeeze George's hand before he comes, the best warning he can manage.

George swallows, and reaches for what remains of his beer.

"Ugh, fuck, it's flat. I told you."

Sam pulls his bib shorts back up and sips tentatively at his own. It could be so much worse.

George inhales and chugs the last of it, placing the bottle down on the coffee table before unfolding himself from the floor and making his way unhurriedly to the bathroom.

Sam hears him throw up, and sighs.

 _All in all, a successful Girondo_ , he thinks, and goes to check up on George.


End file.
